


White

by sheafrotherdon



Category: Stargate Atlantis
Genre: Hurt/Comfort, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2008-11-09
Updated: 2008-11-09
Packaged: 2017-10-11 22:43:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 889
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/117960
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sheafrotherdon/pseuds/sheafrotherdon
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John half hears them coming, their boot steps quick, furtive; he strains to focus, to bring his thoughts back online, to ready himself to help, but when he shifts there's a burst of pain that ricochets across his temple and he slumps back against the wall, gritting his teeth, letting the manacles bear his weight.</p>
            </blockquote>





	White

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to dogeared for the beta.

John half hears them coming, their boot steps quick, furtive; he strains to focus, to bring his thoughts back online, to ready himself to help, but when he shifts there's a burst of pain that ricochets across his temple and he slumps back against the wall, gritting his teeth, letting the manacles bear his weight.

"Here." Ronon's voice, then a clatter of iron as he tries the cell door.

"Don't – "

Ronon's gun discharges, a wash of light to flare behind John's eyelids, burning a path from his retinas to the top of his spine.

" _Don't_!" Rodney snaps. "Does the word mean nothing to you? What the hell use do you think a gun's going to be against Conan the Barbarian's locksmiths and ten tons of rock? Move." There's a rustle of fabric, the scrape of boots, the dull slam of something against iron. "Right, better," Rodney mutters, but his voice is drifting away, growing fainter, just enough to make John's heart hammer desperately in his throat. He swallows – he's no idea how long it's been since he had water; his mouth is bone dry – but before he can try to say something, call out, tell them to come back he hears Rodney again. "Fire in the hole."

John feels the explosion as if it's inside his chest, light and heat and parts of him rent apart. The force of it robs him of speech, of sound, and his hands spasm, his knees jerking reflexively against the floor. There's an echoing silence in the aftermath before he feels someone's hands on him, but it's all he can do to remember the mechanics of breathing, much less open his eyes, tell everyone to fuck themselves, to go straight to fucking hell.

"Gently," Teyla counsels, and it's her hands that support his wrists as someone – Rodney? – unlocks the manacles. "Gently, John, hush," and she's easing his arms down toward his body and god, it _hurts_ , blood rushing into numbed fingers, muscles stretching against their will. John rocks forward, almost sure he'll throw up, but there are other hands then – broad, rough, capable – framing his face, thumbs easing his eyelids open, and that's when he does swear. "Fuck, _fuck_ ," he mutters as Rodney grazes his temple with careful fingers, says, "Yeah, I know, we got you now, can you walk?"

He can, sort of, with Ronon's arm slung behind his back to haul him along, and while he doesn't hear cover fire as they move, he bets it's because Lorne and Donovan have the upper levels secured and there's more than one Jumper parked in the courtyard. They move as quickly as they can, Rodney's invective against warlords and archaic religious superstition a familiar white noise that helps blur the sharp twists of pain that grip the back of John's calves, and they're in the Jumper before John can really process it, the floor warm beneath his thighs, a bench against his back.

"Water," Teyla says, and she steadies his head, tips a canteen to his lips. He chokes a little, tries again, mumbles thankfully when he feels it hit his gut.

Everyone's movements are quick and efficient, Morrison in the pilot seat, Teyla at his right. Ronon closes the hatch, pulls down a first-aid kit, roots around for the painkillers kept inside.

"No," John says, wincing – he shakes his head. "I'm fine."

" _Right_ ," Rodney says, and his datapad thunks onto the bench beside John's head. "Of course you are. Three days strung up like, oh, Pegasus sausage, and you're _fine_." He sits down at John's side, begins to manhandle him. "Come on. Move."

John groans. "Stop it." He feels like shit; his head is pounding; he just wants to sleep.

"Fuck you. Move," Rodney says, and John makes himself roughly amenable to being shoved into whatever spot Rodney wants by going loose, offering no resistance, and if he ends up with his back against Rodney's chest, he's far too fucking bewildered to do much about it. "Just – stop playing the . . . whatever it is you're . . ." Rodney sighs, his breath stirring the fine hairs at the back of John's neck, and then he shifts to lay his hands on John's rounded shoulders.

They took his jacket – his favorite jacket – and there's only his shirt between Rodney's hands and his skin. The fabric may as well not exist for the flood of heat that bleeds from Rodney's palms into John's aching muscles, and he groans – a thin, shocked sound – letting his head roll forward.

"We'll get you warm when we get home," Rodney says quietly, firmly. "All of you. Just – I won't press. But your shoulders have to be . . ."

They are; they do; they ache and burn and Rodney's hands aren't moving at all but he's stirring up a hornet's nest of discomfort just by pressing body heat against blood and bone and John feels so fucking grateful he could weep. "Rodney . . ."

"Shhhhh," Rodney says, managing to sound vaguely annoyed, and so John lets his eyes close, lets his body sag, lets Rodney's hands rest as two points of contact to keep him anchored, lets Rodney's legs press either side of his own, relents, surrenders as best he's able, takes a canteen from Ronon with fingers twisted and unsure, drinks and lets his mind flood white with the brand of ten fingerprints against his skin.


End file.
